Her bovine expression seemed to reflect the level of her indifference. “Dunno,” she said. “But he’s gone, all right. Now if you don’t mind, I got jobs to do.”

The new cleaner returned to her jobs, which seemed to consist of little more than emptying wastepaper baskets and spraying polish into the air. I gathered up my books and prepared to leave; but the thought of going home was more than I could face right away.

The Scholar, perhaps? Too crowded, I thought. And Bethan, with the stars up her arms, has taken to looking at me in a way not far removed from compassion; as if my age and loneliness have become a sound that only she can hear, but that announces me from afar. Much as I appreciate the larger portions she serves me, that look of compassion is troubling, and I do not welcome it.

Equally troubling was the fact that Winter has left St. Oswald’s. Why would he leave so suddenly? Surely, he cannot have been dismissed. His betrayal of me to Ms. Buckfast should ensure some level of appreciation. Unless, of course, my assumption was wrong, and the man had been sacked for my crime. But who else could have known about the Honours Boards? It was puzzling. So very puzzling, in fact, that instead of going straight home, as I’d planned, I went out in search of Winter.

I left Malbry Park from the east side, on the far side of Millionaires’ Row, and headed across the Parkside estate and into the little warren of streets that marked the boundary between Malbry Village and White City. Winter’s house was on one of those streets, just off the Abbey Road estate. I didn’t remember the house number, but at least I knew his car.

I found the little blue Peugeot outside a modest, pebble-dashed house. A neat little house, with a square of lawn and a well-clipped privet hedge. There was a light on upstairs—Winter’s bedroom, I assumed. Downstairs, the curtains were open, and I could see a row of china ornaments—dogs, I think—on the window ledge. That surprised me a little—I didn’t imagine Winter as the kind of man to like china dogs. Perhaps they’d belonged to his mother, I thought, and he hadn’t had the courage to give them away. I remembered what he’d said to me. You think they’ll live forever. I’ll admit, it had touched me a little; had given us some common ground.

I rang the doorbell. I heard it chime faintly somewhere inside the house. Then I heard the click of high heels and thought—a little late, perhaps—that I might be interrupting something. That light upstairs in the bedroom. And now the sound of a woman’s tread—